


Starstruck

by robotjellyfish



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Celebrity AU, Drinking, M/M, shance, silliness and fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 02:59:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17154014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotjellyfish/pseuds/robotjellyfish
Summary: One night Lance walks up to a stranger in a bar, a stranger that looks familiar. Lance is too drunk to notice that perhaps this stranger doesn't just pass a striking resemblance to someone he admires so much.





	Starstruck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carriecmoney](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carriecmoney/gifts).



> Happy shancemas carriecmoney, I am your secret santa! I hope you have a shanceful day, and I hope you enjoy this fic.

“Has anyone ever told you you look like Takashi Shirogane?” The words were slurred, voice amplified by alcohol.  
  
It’s not the first time Shiro’s heard such a line. A hazard of the job, there were always people who recognised him. Most failed to hide their excitement and would gush and fawned over him. But then there were the ones who thought they were smart, and the first to pretend they didn't know who he was in an effort to get him to lower his guard.  
  
Well, at least this guy had pronounced his name right, despite the slurring.  
  
Ordinarily, Shiro would reveal himself right away, rather than deal with the simpering attempts to stroke his ego and appear ‘not like other fans’, but sat on his own nursing a cheap whisky in a seedy bar, maybe he needed a little bit of ego stroking. “Can’t say I know him. Friend of yours?”  
  
The drunk spluttered incredulously and fell onto the stool next to him. “How can you not know the name Takashi Shirogane?” he exclaimed, throwing his arms into the air for added emphasis before dropping them onto the scarred bar. He swayed precariously in his seat and leant forward heavily.  
  
Shiro shrugged and lifted his whisky glass to his lips. The drink burned as it slid down his throat. “Guess I’m a little behind on the times. Is he famous or something?”  
  
“Are you for real?” The other man stared at him, his expression shifting from one of disbelief to pity. “He’s only like, the greatest actor of our generation. He's smart, good-looking, and humble. He's like, my hero.”  
  
“He sounds like a pretty great guy, but maybe not the type who'd be in a bar like this.” Shiro turned to the man with a grin and a twinkle in his eye that hinted it was time to drop the ruse, that it was ok for him to admit he knew the person he was talking to was the real Takashi Shirogane.  
  
“Yeah, you're right.” The man sighed and seemed to deflate, arms crossed on the bar he hunched forward, chin resting on his arm. “He wouldn't be in a place like this, and he wouldn't be talking to someone like me.”  
  
“Really? If he wouldn't spare a moment to talk to you, then he doesn't sound all that great.”  
  
The man rolled his head to the side and glared as if Shiro had offended him personally. “He's the best! But, like, a guy like that has more important things to do, cooler people to talk to. I'm no one,” he stated matter of factly with a little shrug. Placing his hands on the bar he pushed himself upright, shaking his head sharply as if to dispel the cloud of self-doubt enveloping him. The sudden movement had him pitching to one side, but he managed to catch himself before he fell, and he turned sharply towards Shiro, leaning forward with little regard for the other man personal space.  
  
“I mean, if I did run into him on the street or something he’d probably say hello, you know make that polite, awkward small talk famous people probably make with their fans, but the actual likelihood of someone as great as him being in the same place as me...” the man trailed off and swung his hand in a big, slow circle to convey an amount he couldn’t possibly quantify.  
  
“I’d say he’s the one missing out.”  
  
“Are you making fun of me?” The man scowled, suspicious and guarded  
  
By now Shiro was convinced that he genuinely didn't recognise him, and the self-deprecation was not an act to feign modesty, but completely genuine. This was new. “Not at all, you seem like a cool guy.”  
  
“Now I know you’re making fun of me,” he didn’t sound upset though. He laughed, a bight, buoyant laugh that made something in Shiro's gut jump and twist in a tight, pleasant knot. He smiled.  
  
“Some guy comes up to you in a bar and says you look like his celebrity crush, someone who you somehow have never heard of, and you don’t think he’s a complete loser?”  
  
“I’m sat here, in this bar, drinking alone. I figure I’m in good company.”  
  
The man stared at him for a moment, and then let out another bubble of laughter. “You have a point. Guess we're both losers.”  
  
“You really do look like him though.” The man rested his elbow on the bar (right in a drying, still sticky puddle of beer. He didn't seem to notice), pillowed his chin in his hand and studied Shiro with intense, deep blue eyes. “You can do better than a bar like this.”  
  
“But sometimes, everyone needs a bar like this,” he shrugged in reply. Gloomy, seedy places like this tended to attract a certain type of clientèle. There were those who fit right and, and seemed to enjoy the ambience, and then there were those who needed somewhere that fit their mood, as dark and depressing as they felt. Shiro had a feeling the man was here for the same reason he was.  
  
The man frowned. “Damn, who hurt you?”  
  
Chucking into his whiskey, Shiro took another sip before replying. “It's stupid. There's this guy I thought was interested, but turns out he was only being nice because he wanted to get with my best friend.”  
  
“What? And is your friend like…” the man trailed off and scowled. “You know what, I can't even think of anyone who's hotter than Takashi, and that means you are like, number two hottest guy in the world since you look so much like him, so that guy must be like, blind, or dumb. Or both,” he finished with an indignant huff.  
  
Shiro laughed, a laugh that came out more like a snort as he bit his lip to stop himself from telling the man the truth. His indignation on Shiro's behalf was rather endearing, and his words were genuine, spoken with heartfelt honesty rather than a desire to impress.  
  
“So what are you doing here?”  
  
The man pulled a face and ducked away, muttering something that Shiro didn't quite catch.  
  
“Sorry, didn't get that.”  
  
The man turned to face him again, shoulders hunched and lower lip jutting out like a sullen child. “I got dumped….four months ago now, and I'm still sore about it. So congrats, you're not the biggest loser at this bar.”  
  
Shiro smiled sympathetically and raised his glass towards the man in a toast. “That relationship must have very been important to you. Missing it doesn't make you a loser.”  
  
The man looked suddenly lost, his blue eyes wide with confusion. He was beautiful, beneath the drunken slouch and slurred speech. He shook his head. “Ok, this is getting too real and depressing.” He got to his feet, stumbling a few steps before righting himself and making a beeline for the brightly lit jukebox.  
  
“Come on, dance with me!” He demanded, beckoning Shiro to follow. Vivid and alive he was the brightest thing in the room, shining with a light that even the dark bar couldn't extinguish. He smiled, crooked and playful, and then he turned around with a sweep of his arms his attention turning to the machine.  
  
Shiro left his half-finished whiskey and went after him, like a moth drawn to the flame. “Dance? Are you sure you can manage that?” He teased, standing behind the man.  
  
“Listen, buddy.” The man spun around to face him, and poked Shiro in the chest, pausing when his finger met a solid mass of muscle. “Damn you are ripped,” he muttered, distracted, and he poked Shiro again.  
  
“I am never too drunk to dance,” he said finally, after one more poke. He turned back to the jukebox, fed a handful of coins into the slot and picked out a set list of song, seemingly at random if the rate at which he hit the buttons was any indication.  
  
A peppy, upbeat song started to play, and the man moved towards Shiro, his hips swaying in a way that was more coordinated and graceful than they should be considering how drunk he was. “So, wanna dance?”  
  
The man was right in front of him, stinking of cheap alcohol and too much cologne, but there was something sweeter beneath it, a refreshing scent like an ocean breeze that had Shiro wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close.  
  
They danced to every song and kept dancing even after the jukebox fell quiet, giggling and tripping over each other's feet. Somewhere in between it all they managed to exchange names. The vibrant young man's name was Lance, and Shiro gave his name as 'Ryou', though Lance was so drunk Shiro wondered if he would have noticed had he given his real name.  
  
Soon that dark bar was no longer the place they needed, and they left together, lighter and freer than that had been when they walked in. But when Shiro asked Lance where he lived, the other man couldn't seem to remember, and all of the alcohol he'd consumed was starting to drag him down into a drunken stupor that demanded sleep.  
  
“Hey, come on you can't sleep yet. Don't you want to go to sleep in your own bed?” Shiro gave Lane a gentle shake, but the man continued to hang in his arm like a rag doll, dragging his feet as Shiro led him towards the car.  
  
“Wanna sleep here,” Lance mumbled, turning his face into Shiro's chest with a satisfied sigh.  
  
“Ok, ok,” Shiro sighed. He knew better than to argue with someone so far gone. Maybe he'd get a little more sense out of Lance in the car. He all but poured the other man into the back seat, Lance flopped down, long limbs splayed out, and it took several attempts for Shiro to get him to sit up so he could buckle his seatbelt. With Lance secured he walked around the car, getting into the back through the other door. By the time he took his seat next to Lance, the other man was fast asleep, his head lolling to one side and mouth hanging open.  
  
Now what? He could go through Lance's pockets, search for a phone or a wallet and hope he found an address, but what if Lance woke up and though he was trying to grope him? It was unlikely, Lance was dead to the world, and maybe Shiro was just looking for an excuse to give to the selfish urge to take Lance home with him, but it was better not to risk it, he decided.  
  
Besides, he wanted to see the look on Lance's sober face when he realised who he really was.  
  
Even though he'd only drank a glass of whiskey (that he hadn't even finished) Shiro didn't want to risk their safety by driving,

so he called his driver, promising a generous bonus if he came to collect him and drive him home right now.  
  
Sometime during his call, Lance's head flopped onto his shoulder, and a satisfied smile stretched his bow lips. He titled his head, nuzzling into Shiro's shoulder mumbling something unintelligible in his sleep. Shiro was more than happy to let him stay there.  
  
A true professional, his driver turned up in a cab several minutes later, a raised eyebrow his only comment about the additional passenger. Shiro smiled sheepishly, and pressed a finger to his lips, glancing at the man still fast asleep on his shoulder.  
  
“Just as long as you don't ask me to hide any bodies for you,” the driver replied, sounding bored.  
  
“Is that what you take me for?” Shiro gasped under his breath; his indignation muted only because he didn't want to wake Lance.  
  
The driver only smiled, climbed into the front seat and started the car up, but Shiro knew the man trusted him, and he had his trust in return. After all, in his line of business, Shiro needed people he could trust.  
  
The ride home was quiet, without so much as the sound of the radio to break the silence. Only the sound of Lance's breathing reached Shiro's ears, a soft melody like the whisper of a gentle breeze across the tide. Orange and yellow streets light flooded the car as they sped along, the artificial lights dancing across Lance's golden, sun-kissed skin making him glow and illuminating the lines of his face. It tempted Shiro to take a taste, touch, but he settled with brushing his fingers through Lance's hair, tucking an errant strand behind his ear.  
  
Lance muttered in his sleep and snuggled closer.  


* * *

  
  
He woke to a thrumming pain in his head, which considering the amount he'd drunk, wasn't as bad as it could have been, as far as hangovers went. Still, even with the curtains closed the light was too bright. It burned against his closed eyelids, and he groaned, rolling over he pulled the covers with him, hugging them tighter around his body.  
  
There was no hurry. It was a Saturday morning, and he had no plans and no other obligations to drag him out of bed. The whole day was free, and he could sleep it all away, maybe wallow a little longer in the self-pity that had got him here in the first place.  
  
But, something nagged at him, like an itch he couldn't scratch it told him that something was right, and no matter how he tried to ignore it, it refused to let him doze off.  
  
“Come on, just five more minutes,” he pleaded, burying his face into the pillow that smelled faintly of...lavender?  
  
Had his pillow always smelled like that?  
  
The covers were softer than he remembered too, smooth against his skin like a gentle caress, and heavy enough to be warm without being suffocating. The mattress was plush, and springy, with just right amount of support and give; it felt like he was being held in a lovers tender embrace.  
  
His bed had never felt this comfortable.  
  
This was not his bed.  
  
Lance's eyes snapped open. Not his bedroom. He flipped over, throwing the covers up, but there was no one lying next to him. Ok. Good start. A quick look under the covers revealed he was still dressed too. Perfect. While he was not opposed to a one night stand, he would much rather remember it.  
  
He glanced around the room, searching for a clue or something that might jog his memory and tell him who he'd gone home wit, where he was. It was a nice room, unnaturally tidy with minimal decoration. And it all looked expensive. It made Lance oddly uncomfortable as if he didn't belong.  
  
“Ok. Come on, think!” He closed his eyes and tried to remember something, anything, from last night. There was a lot of drinks, the bar, a man, laughter and dancing...and that was all he remembered. Not a face nor a name, but at the very least he felt safe. Whoever it was hadn't taken advantage of him, and it had felt….nice. A warm, pleasant sensation pooled in Lance's chest, he couldn't make out a face, but he remembered the feeling of being with the man, or at least, his heart did.  
  
“Damn it.” Not good. “Oh God, I hope I didn't make a fool of myself.” He groaned, slapping his hands over his face. It would be just his luck, to finally find someone he was willing to try again with, and he'd already ruined it by being a drunken idiot.  
  
Well, there was only one way to find out, but that involved getting out of bed and going to find the mysterious man from last night. Lance wasn't sure he was ready for that.  
  
A knock at the door brought him crashing to reality.  
  
“Are you awake?” The voice was a deep, smooth rumble that made a tight knot form in his belly. Oh. Definitely not good.  
  
Lance swallowed thickly, and before he could think, he answered. “No.” To make things even more embarrassing, his voice cracked.  
  
The deep voice laughed (even his laugh was sexy), and the click of the door opening followed. Lance's eyes darted to the window, and he wondered if he had enough time to jump out of it before the other man came into the room.  
  
He sat up, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed and cast one final glance to the door, ready to make his escape. He froze. The figure standing in the doorway was so impossible that it had to be a dream, and Lance's body went lax flopping back down on the bed with a relieved huff of laughter. “Oh, I'm dreaming.”  
  
The figure in the doorway cocked an eyebrow, one hand resting on the door handle, the other, his silver and black prosthetic, holding a glass of water. “Oh? Are you sure about that?”  
  
It even sounded like him. Spot on. Well, Lance was maybe a little obsessed with the man and had watched all of his films and various interviews multiple times. It was no wonder his dream would be so realistic. He pulled his legs back onto the bed and rolled over, lying on his side to face the dream Shiro. This was the nicest dream he'd had in a while, and he was going to enjoy it. “Well you are the man of my dreams,” Lance purred with a smirk and a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows.  
  
Shiro bit his lower lip, suppressing a smile that he couldn't quite keep out of his eyes. Lance was still as beautiful as he remembered, the muted sunlight leaking through the closed curtains highlighting his form on the bed, giving him a sultry glow, calling to Shiro. He wanted to join the young man, kiss those golden cheeks and smirking lips, run his fingers through silky soft auburn hair. Too short to tangle his fingers in, but maybe just long enough to grab and pull-  
  
“I came to check on you,” he said, lifting the glass of water, “and see if you wanted anything for breakfast.” Shiro stepped into the room, stopping beside the bed.  
  
“Oh, I can think of something I'd like for breakfast.” Lance licked his lips, eyes raking up and down Shiro's body hungrily.  
  
It would be so easy for Shiro take advantage, take what he wanted. But Lance was drunk on sleep, in such a daze that he had no idea what he was saying. Shiro dipped his fingers into the glass and flicked the water at Lance.  
  
Lance blinked. “What was that for?”  
  
Shiro shrugged. “It seemed like you needed a little help waking up.”  
  
Small droplets water dripped down Lance's face. Running down his cheek and dripping off his chin. The cold seeped into his skin, an icy touch that was too cold, too real.  
  
“Oh my God.” Grabbing the covers, Lance yanked them over his head and curled into a tight ball. It did nothing to muffle the boom of laughter Shiro let out. He heard the click of the glass meeting the surface of the bedside table, then felt the bed dip as the solid, very real weight of Takashi Shirogane perched on the bed next to him.  
  
“I take it you're awake now?”  
  
Lance could only groan.  
  
He felt a hand hover over him, cautious fingers tracing the line of his body until they found his side. They poked him gently. “You know I don't mind if you stay there forever, but you should at least drink the water. I bought you some Advil too if you need it.”  
  
It was hot beneath the covers. His heart was pounding, breath coming in panicked gasps that only made the air around him hotter and more stifling. This was not a dream. The real Takashi Shirogane was sitting on the bed next to him. And this was not Lance's bed. It must be Shiro's. But how had he ended up here?  
  
“What are you going to do to me?” Lance asked, his voice a muffled squeak.  
  
The hand resting on his side twitched and then moved up to settle on his shoulder. “Do to you? Do you think I'm going to do something bad?” He sounded almost sad.  
  
“What? No. Well, nothing that I don't deserve. But I don't know how I got here, and if I did something stupid like stalked you or broke in, then I'm really really sorry. I was so drunk last night I don't remember anything. I didn't mean to. Please don't hurt me, or sue me, I don't have any money,” Lance rambled, words falling from his lips in an anxious torrent.  
  
“Lance.” The hand curled gently around his shoulder, a reassuring squeeze, comforting and not threatening. “Come out?” It was a plea, not a demand. He didn't sound angry.  
  
Slowly Lance pulled the covers down, but only enough so the top of his head and eyes peeked over them. Shiro's fingers uncurled from around his shoulder, but his hand stayed where it was. Lance could feel the heat of his touch, even through the blankets.  
  
Shiro smiled warm and gentle, the light in the room giving his features a softness that made Lance's heart jump into his throat. “Good morning, Lance.”  
  
“...um, hi?” His voice cracked again.  
  
The smile turned into a chuckle, and Shiro bowed his head, moving closer. “I met you in a bar last night. You were pretty wasted already and didn't recognise me, but you talked to me, and I enjoyed your company. When it was time to go home, you couldn't tell me where you lived, so I brought you here so you'd have a safe place to sleep. That's all that happened.”  
  
The hand

moved from his shoulder, and Lance pulled the covers down lower. “Oh….wait, I didn't recognise you? Seriously?”  
  
“No. But you did come up to me and asked if anyone had ever told me that I resemble Takashi Shirogane.”  
  
Lance groaned, rolled over, and buried his face in the pillow.  


* * *

  
  
There was no way easy way to recover from such a humiliation, but no way he could stay in Shiro bed for the rest of his life. So Lance did the adult thing and dragged himself out of bed, and completely avoided meeting the other man's gaze.  
  
“I'll cook breakfast, it's the least I can do,” he insisted, chasing Shiro away from the stove while still avoiding looking directly at him.  
  
Shiro hesitated for a moment, resisting, but soon moved away with a small, low chuckle. He sat at the counter, chin resting in his hand as he watched the other man work. He said nothing, allowing Lance to choose when he was ready to break the awkward silence that had fallen between them.  
  
A batch of his mama's special pancakes should fix things, Lance decided, or at the very least they would help smooth things over. He could feel Shiro's eyes on him as he cooked, a prickle that started at the back of his neck and danced down his spine. It felt equal parts thrilling and nerve-racking.  
  
He had to do something.  
  
“So tell me, what won you over last night? Was it my sparkling personality, or how well I can handle my alcohol?” he asked his back to Shiro. It was a joke, a line to break the ice.  
  
But Shiro answered him seriously. “It was your dancing.”  


* * *

  
  
“You don't have to drive me home. I can call a cab, or even get the bus.”  
  
“It's no trouble. I have nothing on today.” Shiro smiled, a smile that would not take no for an answer. It was unfair really, how could Lance refuse when Shiro, his idol, looked at him like that? Shiro ushered him to the car and held the passenger's door open for him.  
  
Lance hesitated for only a second before he climbed in, settling into the smooth leather seat. He fidgeted, sweaty hands fumbling to buckle up the seatbelt.  
  
“Are you sure this is ok. Aren't you worried people will see?” Lance asked as Shiro climbed into the driver's seat. The car alone would stand out, sleek and polished it looked brand new, and probably cost more than Lance made in a year. It would look horribly out of place pulling up outside his apartment block. And then there was Takashi Shirogane, a name and face everyone knew. They might as well walk around with a giant, neon arrow pointing at them.  
  
“Why should I worry?”  
  
Lance tugged at his seatbelt. “Just, you know, being seen with me? I'm no one. The press will have a field day.”  
  
“It's none of their business who I spend my free time with,” Shiro said matter of factly, in a tone that left no room for argument. “And Lance, you are someone, someone special. Don't ever doubt that.”  
Heat flooded Lance's face, he could feel it all the way to the tips of his ears and down the back of his neck, and he quickly bowed his head, trying to hide his blush. “Oh...okay.” What could he say to a line like that? It was like a dream, but a dream that would soon come to an end. As kind as Shiro was being Lance knew there was little chance of him seeing the other man again, but oh, he would treasure these moments, and those words, for the rest of his life.  
  
“Here.” The one word was the only warning Lance received before Shiro tossed a small, rectangular object at him, which landed in his lap. A phone.  
  
“What's this?”  
  
“My phone. Put your number in there.” Shiro flashed Lance a cocky grin before firing up the engine with a press of a button. The car purred to life and moved of soundlessly. It was as if they were gliding down the long, winding driveway.  
  
“You want my number? Why?” Lance held the phone in his hands, grip lax, not quite sure what to do with it.  
  
“So I can call you, of course, that is if you don't mind? But if you'd rather you can take my number instead, and call me. But if you do that you have to promise to call me.” Shiro turned to wink at Lance, before driving through a set of heavy iron gates that swung opened automatically.  
  
“You're serious?”  
  
Shiro's attention remained on the road, and he didn't answer, but the smile on his lips told Lance he wasn't joking.  
  
“Ok fine.” Lance turned to the phone with a determined scowl, his fingers moving quickly across the screen typing in his information. When that was done he lifted the phone, pulled his best 'smoulder' and snapped a quick selfie to add to his contact details.“There!” He feigned annoyance, but the flush in his cheeks betrayed him.  
  
“So are you free next weekend?” Shiro asked. His eyes still on the road.  
  
Lance spluttered, and almost dropped the phone. It took him a moment to get his breath back so he could answer. “Yes...I'm free.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
